


Of Rats and Monsters

by SweetJinxii



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ashe was never adopted, Books, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Cooking, Feral to Lovers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Illiteracy, M/M, Other Additional Tags May Be Added, Post-Time Skip, Sporadic Updates, Tags May Change, Thief!Ashe, Threats of Violence, looting, the slowest of burns but wE'LL GET THERE EVENTUALLY I PROMISE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-08-23 09:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20240740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetJinxii/pseuds/SweetJinxii
Summary: Ashe knew how to take care of himself. Stealing, looting, and spending more time around the corpses of soldiers and abandoned villages than the living had simply become par for the course. He had learned quickly, that the ones who stay alive are the cowards, who retreat at the first sign of danger and return once fate has collected her due.Still, he finds himself drawn to the abandoned Garrag Mach Monastery, despite the rumors of a beast roaming the halls.He's never considered himself good with animals, but how hard could cohabitation be?





	1. Blue Sea Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I think it would be remiss to not say that this was inspired by a few lines in shadowshrike's fic Bring Him Home, which can be read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20121697
> 
> Shadowshrike if you're reading, thanks for writing such a wonderful fic and giving me this idea!
> 
> Also a shoutout to my friend, @sincerely-violet-snow on Tumblr for being my beta. Thank you for listening to my screaming about the Blue Lions.
> 
> This fic will contain spoilers for the Blue Lions route, most likely along with spoilers for supports. If you haven't played the route yet, please do so, it's really well done.
> 
> Ashe does kind of act out of character at first, if you haven't taken that from the description, but I have good reasoning for it, I promise. We'll get good boy Ashe soon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, it was probably not the smartest of plans. Rumors had been circulating for a while about how it was now cursed, and those who tread there would never be seen alive again, if seen at all. A beast roamed the halls now, didn’t you know? A horrifying, hideous monster with teeth like daggers, and fur stained with the blood of those who had fallen before it. But, with his wound in his side acting up, and the last of his gold spent, he had to find somewhere to take shelter from the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for descriptions of choking/strangulation this chapter.

Ashe had heard stories of the Monastery, both from when it was active to after the siege, when it lay abandoned in the center of Fodlan. It used to be a hub of knowledge and learning that his family could never afford, housing the pinnacle of education for both the holy and nobles. It was the home of the Knights of Seiros, whom the children in his village used to imitate with wooden swords and shields, before they realized the true horrors of war, before the Empire came and wiped it off the map.

He’d never thought he’d make it here himself.

Truth be told, it was probably not the smartest of plans. Rumors had been circulating for a while about how it was now cursed, and those who tread there would never be seen alive again, if seen at all. A beast roamed the halls now, didn’t you know? A horrifying, hideous monster with teeth like daggers, and fur stained with the blood of those who had fallen before it. But, with his wound in his side acting up, and the last of his gold spent, he had to find _ somewhere _to take shelter from the coming storm.

He slowly made his way up the steps, steadying himself against the wall, being careful not to irritate the wound more. Soldiers, Imperial soldiers, lay in pools of dried blood, their stained armor not raising as many warning bells as they used to when he was younger, before he realized that soldiers meant corpses with old weapons and trinkets from home, things of little value on their own, but added up quickly, enough for a hot meal and perhaps a room at an inn if he was lucky. He made a mental note to check them later, for the monastery itself probably held at least something more valuable than some rusty swords and axes, though he did pick up a mostly undamaged bow and quiver for protection, the rumors of the beast murmuring in the back of his mind.

The monastery, despite the bodies, was fairly peaceful. It was high enough that he could see the thunderstorm rolling over the fields and mountains, chasing him with slow, but never-ending stamina. Shelter, first.

He walked across the overgrown lawns, avoiding rubble and other debris, before noticing three rooms, each marked with a tattered banner. A red one with a black eagle, for the Adrestian Empire to the right, a yellow one with a gold deer for the Alliance to the left, and in the center, a blue banner with a white lion, for the Kingdom. He touched it, the fabric rough and faded with age. If he had been noble, if he had mysteriously bore a Crest, this would have most likely been his classroom. 

Inside, there were desks, seemingly abandoned in a hurry, with quills and notes still strewn about. A few bookcases were still standing, filled with volumes he thought impossibly large, with titles he cursed himself for not being able to understand. The front of the room had a teaching podium, along with a chalkboard, still depicting diagrams of battle tactics and formations that he vaguely recognized from the few times a bandit gang had allowed him into their ranks. He couldn’t stand the pillaging, ravaging, the burning, despite the safety in numbers. When he finally came across a woman, her eyes staring up at the sky, an arrow, _ his arrow, _ pierced through her shoulder...he left. Despite his own looting, he could somehow learn to sleep at night knowing that at the very _ least _ he didn’t kill for it.

But if he had gone here...he wouldn’t have to worry about food, would he? No more worrying about protection, or whether he’d have a roof over his head at night. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture it, the students at their desks, the teacher at the lectern. And he knew, he remembered the class that had been here the year the war started.

Back when he still had parents, still had a family to take into consideration, the Lord of where he lived decided to start an uprising. He’d never paid attention to politics, never had the chance to try and understand them, but he knew this meant battles, which meant more people in the region, which meant more targets. He didn’t like the idea of considering the living as simple targets back then, before he began equating the distance between himself and others with survival, but if he could make just enough after today, he could manage to afford to feed his brother and sister, with maybe a little extra to spare for his parents as money grew tighter.

He tailed Lonato’s soldiers as they marched through the woods, watched curiously as one of the generals cast a spell to cover the area in a thick fog. However, he could hear the Knights of Seiros approaching, and he scrambled his way up an old tree to try and catch the sight.

Surprisingly, while the Knights of Seiros _ had _ come, including a proud woman with a sword that glowed a bright golden color, there were also kids, people _ his age _, wearing black and gold uniforms, being lead by a woman with a stoic face. They followed orders from their commander without question, though the fog made it difficult for them to see their enemies hiding in the mist, including that one magician general, channelling the deceptive spell, right underneath Ashe’s tree. Then, there was a flash of blue, and a sudden wet sound of metal through flesh, and the fog slowly dissipated.

The attacker looked up, his blue eyes meeting Ashe’s grey ones, and the world seemed to stop for a second. He was handsome, prettier than most girls Ashe had ever met, though with a stern face. He had high cheekbones, and flawless, pale skin. And of course, his eyes were stunning, a bright, brilliant blue, but with a murkiness underneath that was more intriguing than anything else about him, even as he seemed to size up Ashe, trying to decide whether he was an enemy or friend, like a wildcat deciding whether or not to pounce.

Then, another order was shouted across the field, and he was gone.

Afterwards, as Ashe was pawning off the few weapons that were in decent shape, he overheard some of the village girls jabbering away like birds on a fence.

“Did you see him?” one of the girls asked.

“He was so handsome!” her friend sighed.

“See who?” Ashe asked.

They turned to him in shock. “Why, the Prince of course!”

_ The Prince _, Ashe mused, lost in his memories as he looked over the books on the shelf, before pulling one out. The cover was a painting of a gallant knight on horseback, adorned in the same blue cape he had seen that day. He couldn’t read the title, but...if the Prince was alive today, if the Empire hadn’t attacked...would he be just like this? A dashing, handsome young man, older, wiser than the boy he’d seen that day, but still charming, talented, graceful...

His thoughts were interrupted by a spear embedding itself in the bookcase, right by his ear.

Adrenaline kicked in, and Ashe drew his bow, nocking an arrow faster than the clap of thunder outside. But what he saw wasn’t an Imperial ambush, or another bandit who had already laid claim to the land.

In a flash of lightning, he saw the black and white fur of a large beast. Before he could fully process its shape, it charged towards him. Ashe let his arrow fly just as it tackled him to the ground, pinning him by his neck.

The face was dark, even more so with the slow lack of air beginning to cloud his vision. But the beast was a _ man _with the strength of the monsters the villagers whispered about, the ones the Empire unleashed in battle. The grip on his throat tightened, and he corrected himself to this man being stronger, and more terrifying than anything that could patrol Imperial lines.

“Filthy rat…” the man sneered, just before another bolt of lightning shook the monastery. In that brief moment, Ashe could see his face, before suddenly being transported five years ago, to a tree in the middle of a fog and blood-soaked battlefield, watching flashes of black, gold...and blue, impossibly blue eyes, a piercing gaze, fueled by something he didn’t quite understand, but could now possibly reach out and grasp.

“Your Highness…” he gasped.

The grip on his throat loosened, just enough to allow for one gasp of air before it tightened again.

“Are you an Imperial spy, then?” the prince asked. “Were you sent to kill me?”

Ashe shook his head the best he could muster.

“You wield Imperial weapons, and you dare lie to me?!”

“...Taken...from outside…” he desperately tried to explain, trying to make peace with the fact that this is how he would meet his end, at the hands of a dead prince, in a place long abandoned, for his own body to be stripped of any humanity by any poor soul unfortunately curious enough to climb the monastery stairs to their own death.

The prince adjusted his position above him, the armor on his leg cutting into the old wound on his side, forcing Ashe to let out a weak cry. 

“Please…” he begged, through the burning in his throat and the pain in his side. “Please…”

He didn’t respond, and Ashe braced himself for a swift crack of his neck, or the squeezing to tighten. Instead, however, the prince let go, and Ashe scrambled back until his back hit the bookcase, coughing and gasping for air as he clutched his side, praying that the wound didn’t reopen. He didn’t dare move from his spot as the prince stood, and pulled his spear out of the wood where his head had been, observing the cover of the book now dropped on the ground, oblivious to the predator stalking him. He aimed the point, still sharp, a hair’s width away from Ashe’s face.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t take your head from your shoulders…” he growled.

Ashe scrambled for words, for anything someone like him with nothing could offer to the former most powerful man in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. As the prince’s grip tightened on his spear with the intent to strike, he finally found the will to speak.

“My parents!” he blurted out. “My parents were a part of a resistance against the Empire!”

The prince said nothing, which he took as permission to continue.

“They...They were restaurateurs. They hosted meetings. I...I wasn’t there when…” Ashe fought the urge to throw up, at both the pain and the memory, the stench of woodsmoke and burning flesh still fresh after all these years. “The...The Empire...They burned _ everything _…It...It was all gone...”

He couldn’t see the prince’s face anymore, the lighting and thunder having subsided, leaving only the pounding rain. But...he lowered his spear, allowing Ashe to sigh in relief.

“You leave at dawn,” he commanded gruffly. “If I find you here after...I’ll take your head.”

“Thank you…” he whispered as the man began to leave. “Thank you…”

And as the moon began to peer her way through the clouds, illuminating him just for a moment as he returned outside, Ashe understood the difference between men and beasts.


	2. Blue Sea Moon (cont.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He let out a sigh, letting the thoughts of the prince, and his time at the monastery slip away with his breath into the wind. It did no good to dwell on chance encounters, to mull over a thousand impossible experiences and conversations and what-ifs. He had to move, before the prince found him lingering.
> 
> But when he reached the steps down, he saw the flash of black, white, and blue turn the corner at the base, and Ashe found himself presented with a choice. He could take another exit and avoid him...or continue the way he had come in, to let curiosity take hold once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect updates to be this frequent, because I'm currently riding a creative kick as far as I can go and I don't know when it's gonna slam me back into the brick wall of writer's block.
> 
> But enjoy Ashe and Dima being badasses together.
> 
> Also I'm bumping the rating up to M because of violence, even though I cannot write fight scenes to save my life.
> 
> Trigger warning in this chapter for descriptions of severe wounds, aggressive murder, impaling, and, well, it's feral Dima killing bandits, so everything you'd expect from that.

Ashe was used to sleepless nights, spending time tossing and turning, or staring up at the night sky. The bruise forming on this neck and stretching down to his collar made even the simple act of breathing hard work, and his side ached as it did when the wound was still freshly healed. He ran his fingers over the rough scar tissue beneath his shirt, grateful that the confrontation hadn’t reopened it.

  


He didn’t have many, and most were simply from plans he’d had when he was younger, the ones he hadn’t thought about well enough to escape without a few injuries. His parents had explained the basics of care to him when he used to help out in the back of the kitchen, when he was still around  _ to _ help. He could relax an irritating burn, clean and bandage a scrape, and even learned how to stitch up a bad cut when his younger sister had gotten reckless with a knife. He could still remember the strong scent of the poultice his mother had used on a blistering burn from a splash of soup, the soothing pressure of a bandage wrapped around his sprained ankle, the taste of dry fabric in his mouth as he tried not to scream when she cleaned a deep gash on his leg.

  


Those days were long past now. Now, he prided himself on being near silent, no matter how severe the wound. He’d grown used to pain, to enduring, the stench of blood and the soreness that persisted for weeks after. He remembered, briefly, stitching up the wound in his side using thread he had pulled from a dead woman’s embroidered apron, telling the half-moon above that if Saint Seiros wanted him dead, she’d have to try a lot harder than that.

  


As the night went on, the pain slowly faded to a level where he could finally close his eyes, and let his mind go quiet, at least for the last few hours until his dawn departure. He’d learned not to stay in one place too long. The more people who recognized him, the harder a target was to find. Which, of course, made corpses preferable. The dead don’t have memories.

  


When he finally opened his eyes to see the first few rays of sun peer through the archway, Ashe slowly stood up, gathered the bow and quiver that the prince had knocked away from him during their scuffle the night before, and began to leave the way he came. The dawn had cast the entire monastery in a golden glow, the ruined, abandoned buildings still reaching up towards the pink sky like they must have when the Archbishop was still here, when they were still considered blessed. It was a shame he couldn’t stay longer, the beauty of the warm grey walls and intricate stonework was still something to behold, even with the crumbling decay they had fallen into. Aesthetic beauty he usually measured in how big a sum he could fetch in a marketplace, but the monastery’s charms weren’t something that could be sold, bought, or even conquered. He wondered vaguely if the prince thought the same way, if that was the reason he’d declared it his domain.

  


He shook his head. Nostalgia, or even positioning were better reasons. It was on the edge of Imperial territory but high enough he could still see if a battalion was coming before they’d even set foot on the once-holy land. And familiarity, of course, was most likely another benefit to him, though none of the facilities had seemed to have been touched in the nearly five years since the siege.

  


He sighed, letting the thoughts of the prince, and his time here slip away with it into the wind. It did no good to dwell on chance encounters, to mull over a thousand impossible experiences and conversations and what-ifs. He had to move, before the prince found him lingering.

  


But when he reached the steps down, he saw the flash of black, white, and blue turn the corner at the base, and Ashe found himself presented with a choice. He could take another exit and avoid him...or continue the way he had come in, to let curiosity take hold once again. His feet seemed to decide before his tired brain, descending quick enough to keep the prince in his sights, but far enough away that he couldn’t hear him following in his shadow.

  


The forest made tracking him harder, but Ashe was quick on his feet, and his vision hasn’t failed him yet. Deep in the wood, he saw the target the prince had found: a small settlement of bandits in a clearing, the smoke from their bonfire the previous night still spiraling up towards the heavens. None of the bandits seemed to be awake just yet, the tents still closed, and only a couple “guards” dozing by the dying embers, close to the entrance.

  


He knew the scenario well, knew exactly where to place himself. He quickly scrambled up a tree close enough to watch and listen, but far enough away that he wouldn’t be spotted. He wasn’t fifteen anymore, he didn’t make those stupid mistakes he made back then.

  


The prince watched from the brush, a panther about to pounce, only a few yards away from their prey. The wind picked up once more, as he burst out towards the first bandit guard, Ashe looking away just before the first strike. He listened to the gasps and shouts of surprise, as the tents began to rustle and awaken, but the wet sounds of a blade tearing through flesh didn’t seem to stop. When he finally gained the will to look out over the field, ten bodies already lay rotting on the ground. A flash of a spear, and there were eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. The prince was powerful, almost brutish, ripping through bandits with a snarl on his face, baring fangs, pure rage usually reserved for particularly heinous crimes, not petty criminals camping in the middle of the woods. Unlike most battles he watched, didn’t seem to have a rhyme or reason to his carnage, just strode through and taking out anyone who dared challenge him, like it was a game.

  


However, one of them, a slim, weaselly looking man, had seemed to have circled behind him, watching, analyzing, waiting. His axe’s iron blade caught in the sun poking through the leaves as he studied the back of the prince’s armor, before his head tilted up, to his shaggy yellow mane. His arm twisted back slightly, resting his weight on his back foot, perfectly positioned to-

  


For the second time today, Ashe acted on instinct, dropping out of the tree, nocking an arrow, and letting it fly. It struck the bandit right in his shoulder, and he fell with a cry.

  


“Archers!” a bandit yelled. “There’s archers!”

  


The prince knocked off the bandit he had been combating, his head turning towards Ashe as another bandit chased towards him, but he gritted his teeth and let loose another arrow.

  


He never liked fighting much. Self-defense, though, as he learned when he was younger, had its value. He learned when he was unfortunate enough to spend a night in an inn, only for the village to be raided in the night, and he left one of the bandits in the halls bloody and bruised, walking away with the trophy of a black eye, busted lip, and bruised knuckles. Surprisingly, the bandit leader, a gruff, muscular man, with a sizable gut and mismatched eyes, had seen something in him as he came stumbling out the front door, and offered him a place in their ranks, at barely sixteen. There was safety in numbers, comfort in camaraderie as he was taught to punch, to defend, to swing an axe, before taking a particular shine towards bows and shooting.

  


He would have been great,  _ could _ have been great, until they found their first village. The group surrounded the church as one of the men threw a torch down onto the dry bushes surrounding the windows. As the villagers poured out the entrance way, Ashe was supposed to pick off stragglers, but aiming at people was not the same as aiming at wild game he was going to cook later, nor could he simply see them as inanimate corpses, holding valuables in their pockets. Still, as his leader gave the shout, he fired, and the arrow struck a young woman as a child screamed. He could still  _ hear _ it, piercing, and impossibly loud, shaking him to his core.

  


Something broke. Something between him and the bandits and the villagers shattered, and he was no longer thinking, just  _ acting _ , and suddenly found himself stepping in front of an old man, who had already been half scorched running out of the flames.

  


“Move, damnit!” the leader sneered (he had a name, what was his  _ name? _ ), before he stabbed his dagger down, hitting Ashe just shy of his stomach, and knocking him away, before finishing his target.

  


He should have died there. He should have just rolled over and faced the woman with an arrow through her heart, and closed his eyes. But somehow, he dragged himself into an alley, clutching the bleeding wound, forcing himself to breathe, to focus, to center himself.

  


Saint Seiros, he wasn’t ready to  _ die _ yet.

  


And something in him wouldn't let the prince die today either.

  


He dodged another bandit, shooting him in the back, someone grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him into the trunk of a large pine tree, aiming a steel blade at his throat.

  


The man smirked, the point pressing into the still-forming bruises from the previous night. Ashe twisted his shoulder, and landed a punch, solid in his gut, the bandit's grip slipping and allowing Ashe to shove him away and grab his bow, running back just far enough to shoot-

  


The arrow missed, soaring just past the bandit’s arm and tearing into the tent behind him. As the man’s lips twisted in a smirk, another blade forced its way through his stomach, and he gasped in shock, blood falling from his mouth, before he collapsed onto the ground. The prince stepped on him, pulling the red-soaked spear back through.

  


He lowered his bow. The wind had stopped, as if the entire forest was holding its breath, watching the pair.

  


The prince kicked the bandit’s body away, staring at it, before his head turned slowly towards Ashe.

  


He swallowed, at a loss of what to say.

  


_ “I’m sorry for following you.” _

_“Was that the last of them?”_

  


_ “Did you get hurt?” _

  


“What do you want?” the prince asked before Ashe could open his mouth, the growl in his voice a warning to think even more carefully.

  


“Nothing,” Ashe said quickly, mustering all his will not to falter under the prince's contemptuous glare.

  


“Don’t lie to me, rat,” the prince hissed, taking a stalking step towards him.

  


He swallowed. “I want to stay in the monastery. Just for a little while.”

  


“And how do I know that you’re not going to come with ten, twenty, fifty more vermin in tow?” His blade was pointed towards the slowly cooling corpse on the ground. Ashe wasn’t sure if it was intentional, but he also wasn’t sure which answer he’d prefer.

  


“I don’t like people,” he tried to explain. “Working with...people like them, I mean. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  


The prince’s hand turned just slightly, the dappled sunlight catching red and silver, making them shine, and reminding Ashe of the threat, the promise he made last night.

  


“You know I can shoot,” he said, thinking fast, talking more than anyone’s probably heard him speak outside of a marketplace in over five years. “I can cook too. I can hunt. If you’re worried about Imperial ambushes, I can keep a lookout. I just...I want to stay. For a small time, at least. Please.”

  


He was asking too much. He’d asked for too much already the previous night. The prince was within every right to slice across the line of bruises he’d created along his neck, to leave his head and body to rot with the rest of the bandits he’d slaughtered, to be reclaimed by the forest and forgotten. But somehow, when he finally worked up the courage to meet the prince’s gaze, he turned away, and began to walk back the way they came. “Do what you want.”

  


Ashe hesitated...before following behind, their shadows melting into those of the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite happen with this chapter, so if anyone has anything they're confused about, please feel free to comment!
> 
> Also I just love reading your comments anyways so comment what you enjoyed too!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Tumblr: @bloodyjinxii


	3. Verdant Rain Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though he wasn’t sure if the prince did sleep at night, not that he was going to sneak up on him and check. And when did he eat?
> 
> If there was anything he’d learned about watching the few patrons his parents' restaurant did get, it was that food helped bring people together, even if they weren’t being served food made for nobility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Oh this will be a short and easy update
> 
> Me: (accidentally writes 2100k words)
> 
> This chapter is mostly filler, with a little bit of a surprise near the end. Just grab some tea and enjoy Ashe exploring the monastery and trying to convince Dima to eat.
> 
> No trigger warnings apply this chapter! Yay!

The prince was...an enigmatic figure, for sure. At first, Ashe had followed him from a safe distance, like he was a mark, to gauge exactly how to avoid him, to avoid existing in the same place at the same time, so he wouldn’t accidentally convince him he was more valuable as a trophy than still drawing breath. He soon realized the prince seemed to keep to the cathedral mostly, either resting by the destroyed dais, or pacing back and forth in the chancel, muttering to himself. He would leave only a few times, near dawn and near dusk, to look out over the landscape, surveying for more camps like they had seen the morning after they had met. If he spotted smoke, or a suspicious crowd, he’d move out, Ashe in tow.

Watching slaughter wasn’t anything like participating in it. It still sickened him to his core with every arrow he let fly, but somehow, he’d convinced himself that it was simply just self defense. If these bandits made their way up the mountain to the monastery, it would be much more of an annoyance. If they had to die, it was certainly easier to do it away from where they slept.

Though he wasn’t sure if the prince did sleep at night, not that he was going to sneak up on him and check. And when did he eat?

Ashe knew hunger well. The food in the restaurant his parents ran was for the patrons , they made that very clear from when he was very young. If they could sell food, then they could get food. Unfortunately, it was difficult to gain interest when they could only serve plain bread, vegetables, and meats his mother haggled for at the market. His father could cook, sure, but it was tough to expand the menu when ingredients were so limited. With nothing interesting to sell, nothing new, their customers dwindled, which meant no food on  _ anyone’s  _ table. Add in a few years of drought, killing crops and chasing the animals away from the area, and the restaurant was more like a white elephant, well maintained, but useless.

But if there was anything he’d learned about watching the few patrons they did get, it was that food helped bring people together, even if they weren’t being served food made for nobility. He hadn’t cooked in a long while, mostly surviving by buying food with stolen coin, if not stealing from markets outright, but when he found that the old dining hall and kitchen were mostly intact, he hoped that he could still remember what his parents had taught him.

Finding ingredients was both easy and difficult. The pond towards the center had an old set of fishing rods discarded by the docks, some splintered and weak from years of neglect, but a couple still in fairly decent condition, at least for a little while. Fishing itself though, was difficult. He’d never liked bugs, and most of the first didn’t seem to like them either, but they were the only bait he could find. Patience, he knew, was supposed to be key, but even when he got a bite, the string would snap, or the fish would dart away before he could pull it in.

Then there was the greenhouse, which was like stepping into jungle, all overgrown and straining against glass. He could find fruit and vegetables, only a few he recognized from Gaspard. Considering the monastery had housed people from all over, it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was frustrating to dig through layers and layers of leaves, stalks, and wilting flowers to find things that he wasn’t even sure how to use.

He didn’t have a green thumb, or a particular fondness towards plants outside of appreciating tall trees with strong branches, but he would learn, even if it would be the end of him. He didn’t sleep, spending two days using a sword taken off of one of the corpses lying on the stairs to cut back everything still alive, tossing the excess outside, until he was able to form them into something recognizable, something workable. Soon, he had three armloads of usable produce, and enough fish to experiment with until he figured out exactly what was sweet, and what was bitter, what complimented and what overpowered, what was food, and what had been used to make smoke bombs back when the Knights of Seiros still patrolled the halls. (He’d only made that mistake once, before marking the specific plant with a torn piece of red fabric.)

And after eating tens of tries, by the end of the week, he had something decently edible.

He served it out onto one of the few plates that weren’t cracked or chipped, placing it on a silver tray he’d washed the best he could. As he crossed the bridge to the cathedral he usually avoided, his hands shook slightly, but he tightened his grip, forcing himself to remain calm as he entered the chancel. The prince was in his usual spot by the dais, like he’d barely moved since Ashe had seen him last.

He stopped by the last pew, his feet refusing to take him further into the place the prince had claimed as his den. With his shaggy hair, he couldn’t tell if the prince was watching him, or asleep, or…

He took a deep breath. “I...made you something. I told you I could cook, remember?”

The prince said nothing, making no movement. Taking that as approval, or at least ambivalence, he walked forwards, though his steps slowed the closer he got, remembering the spear in the bookcase, and the healing bruises on his neck. When he was only a couple of yards away, he stopped, unable to will himself to move forward another inch.

“I’ll just leave it here…” he said, placing the tray on the ground. The prince’s head moved slightly, shifting his posture, and Ashe froze. He was usually good at reading people, guessing their next moves, figuring out blindspots, but the prince was ever a mystery, each movement making his nerves hit rusty warning bells that he’d assumed he’d grown out of long ago. He took a quick step back, but the prince went still once more. Not wanting to linger and risk the fragile peace between them any more than he already had, he turned on his heel and walked away, growing quicker the closer he got to the door.

He returned the next morning, sneaking in while the prince was out on his dawn patrol, to find his cooking untouched. He tried not to feel offended, but it was difficult.  _ Maybe, _ he thought, picking up the tray.  _ He actually has his own food? _

(Even still, he returned every night with a meal on a silver tray, no matter how many times he came back the next morning to find it stiff and cold.)

With meals secured, he could spend his time exploring the other areas the monastery. He ignored the cathedral, of course, to give the prince his space, but the rest of the grounds he considered fair game.

The buildings towards the west, he found, were the former student dorms, their formerly luxurious furnishings now dusty, faded, and insect bitten. While he considered moving where he slept from the dining hall, the idea of sleeping in one of their beds didn’t sit well with him, like they could come back any moment and scream at the dirty thief that stole their comfort. 

Their belongings, however, were much more interesting. Small trinkets, tokens, and pieces of paper left behind after the siege, leaving Ashe with a thousand little clues to the days they had here. Some had wooden training weapons, maybe formerly well maintained, but now dirty and weak. Others had thick boxes made of rich, dark wood, locked up with keys long since lost. (One was open, and he managed to swipe a crystalline hairpiece, and a few pairs of elegant earrings, hard to come by now, with the war and all.) Somehow, the most intriguing to him were the rooms that contained journal upon journal filled with scribbles, maybe diary entries, maybe class notes, maybe fantastical stories like his father used to recite when he was very, very small. They wouldn’t be worth much, no matter how fine the leather binding used to be, due to their age and use, but they still drew his eye, flipping through them, unable to grasp a single word, but finding small enjoyment in the doodles some would draw in the margins. Eventually, he set those aside, and sought out their textbooks from under beds and poured over them like he was a student himself.

He knew books were important to many people. They told wonderful tales, imparted great wisdom and knowledge, and allowed voices to be heard for generations after. However, he’d never been able to grasp their allure, their true value. Whatever was written, he had never learned. His parents were too busy to sit down and teach writing and reading, and he had vaguely made the connection that perhaps they hadn’t been taught themselves. And without the proper understanding, the value of one book was harder to judge than that of a fine piece of jewelry, or well-crafted weapon.

Most of the textbooks contained complex diagrams of combat stances and positioning tactics that he could half-get if he strained, but some, like the ones that contained just difficult designs of magic circles were impossible. And they just...weren’t interesting when he couldn’t understand.

He remembered his first night, in the classroom and the book he’d been startled into dropping. It still laid there in the corner, now the base of a newly formed spiderweb. He picked it up, brushed it off, and sat down at one of the desks. It wasn’t a textbook, as he’d soon realized, but a story of a knight and a young girl, at least telling by the detailed illustrations every few pages. He studied each one carefully, picturing the story in his mind, what the knight was like and why this girl intrigued him so. He finished it before the sun had even gone down, but for some reason he was restless, in a way he wasn’t quite familiar with.

Then, he found the library.

And he suddenly became very, very busy.

When he wasn’t keeping their food supply up, clearing out the garden, or joining the prince on his expeditions to wandering bandit camps, he was holed up in that room, sitting at one of the tables, surrounded by stacks of books. He had quickly began sorting them, between the ones that had no pictures at all (so could be safely ignored), textbooks, and the stories he devoured near compulsively. Of course, it was easy to get through them when he was only studying the pictures, but they captivated him nonetheless. Dragons and warriors, castles and foreign kingdoms, magic and myth, seemed to come to life on the page in exquisite detail.

He only found it a problem when he would fall asleep, and dream that it was him on horseback, facing monsters and rescuing fair maidens with a magical, blessed weapon. It was such a ridiculous notion, the idea of someone like him being just like the men in the monastery’s books. The artists never showed them sneaking into someone else’s home, or lifting weapons off of those they’d slain, or simply going through their journeys alone, because that was technically the safer option, wasn’t it?

Books, he decided, were also dangerous.

It was best to keep his “reading” to a minimum, especially when so much needed to be done. His last fishing line broke, and some of the plants in greenhouse had died and needed replacing. So, on a Sunday, he took the jewelry he’d swiped from the dorms and headed down to the village by the monastery.

“I can give you 1000 gold pieces for everything,” the redheaded shopkeep said, holding the hairpin up to the light.

“ _ Only _ 1000?” Ashe argued. “That pin alone has  _ got  _ to be worth at  _ least  _ 900\. And look at the arrangement of the gems on the earring. They’re from the  _ Alliance _ .” 

She shook her head. “You’ve got to be playing me, kid. They look fancy, but they’re all made cheap. But fine, I’ll give you 1100.” 

“1500.” 

“ _ 1250 _ ,” she shot back. and that’s my final offer,”

He grinned. “Deal.”

He took the gold pieces, adding them to his pouch, the coins jingling as he walked through the market. Fishing line, bait, seeds, then back to the monastery.

Still, he found himself drawn to a book vendor towards the edge of the pop-up shops. They were very used, but their covers still held traces of their long-faded beauty beneath the grime.

He reached for one towards the back, bumping hands with someone else.

“Oh, sorry!” she said, pulling her hand away.

“It’s okay,” he insisted, turning to her, feeling time suddenly stop, and rewind, to shared beds, and pestering in the kitchen, to whining and apologies after a slip with a knife, years and years he’d left behind, thought he’d lost in smoke and flame, leaving nothing left but dying embers.

Her eyes, familiar and warm, widened like his own. “...Ashe?”

His throat felt dry, and his head spun, but somehow, he managed to grasp onto the only word that made sense.

“Felicity?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to sleep because I'm registering for classes tomorrow and I only write after midnight bc I've got Dumb Insomniac Bitch Disease.
> 
> I'll try and not keep you waiting too long for the next update. But tomorrow is a mystery.
> 
> Tumblr: @bloodyjinxii


	4. Verdant Rain Moon (cont.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She let go of him, but kept her hands on his shoulders, tears hovering in her eyes. “I thought you died.”
> 
> He finally grounded himself, enough to fully see her face...and smile, putting his hand on her own. “I thought you did…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be finished so much earlier, but I had to scrap half of it and then got hit with a massive amount of writing block. Then when I was going to start writing it again, my laptop died.
> 
> It has been A Weekend.
> 
> Also, we hit 1000 hits??? What the heck??? I'm so glad people like my writing I'm gonna cry guys, y'all have been so nice.
> 
> It's also a lot shorter than I planned, but I thought I'd at least give you this now and work on the rest of it in the meantime.

She had grown to be as beautiful as his mother, which is to say she wasn’t a particularly striking beauty at all. But, she inherited his mother’s kind eyes, a shade darker than his own. They had the same freckles too, sprinkled over her nose like cinnamon, though they didn’t stand out as much as his. Her hair was much longer than he’d remembered, pulled into a simple braid down her back. The years may have changed her, but the important thing was that she was here, before him, breathing and  _ alive _ , his younger sister, Felicity.

She threw her arms around him, squeezing him so tight he thought his bones would pop. “It’s you, it’s really you…!”

He froze, still processing, trying to remember that night five years ago. He’d left that morning, word of a skirmish between Imperial and Kingdom troops nearby having caught his attention. The war had made his mother quiet and jumpy, made his father pace. House Rowe had sided with the Empire, but that didn’t mean everyone in Gaspard had. His family had let the rebels in the village use their usually empty restaurant as a base, and they were kind enough, but there still wasn’t enough money, enough food to go around. Ashe found the term “breadwinner” a bit funny back then, for there was nothing honorable about a teenager pickpocketing and looting, and sneaking the gold he’d received into his mother’s coin purse. But he’d decided his path long ago.

Unfortunately it hadn’t lead him back in time to realize that the battle had been a diversion, and the true target was the village he’d called home. The flames swallowed everything that day, rebels, bystanders, families, and  _ children _ .

Children like Felicity, four years younger.

She let go of him, but kept her hands on his shoulders, tears hovering in her eyes. “I thought you died.”

He finally grounded himself, enough to fully see her face...and smile, putting his hand on her own. “I thought you were…”

“Feli, I found…” Another voice, a boy’s, spoke up from behind her, before his face lit up with familiar grin that he hadn’t seen in years, and Ashe found himself taken by yet another tight hug, nearly knocking him over.

“Ashe!” he exclaimed, nearly screamed, frightening an older woman passing by. He laughed and patted his head.

He was stocky, like their father, but he had gotten  _ strong _ , if his hugs were any indication, and he still seemed to have trouble containing his excitement. His hair was dark, more sooty than his siblings, in a messy mop on top of his head. And while he wasn’t quite at Ashe’s height yet, he was certainly taller than he was at fourteen.

“Mason, that’s enough,” Felicity said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder.

His little brother let go of him, but the smile didn’t leave his face. “I knew it, I knew you couldn’t have died!”

“I’m not planning on it,” he said, ruffling his hair, before Mason pulled away, complaining that he wasn’t a kid anymore, which only made Ashe chuckle.

“Where have you been?” Felicity asked.

“I could ask you the same question,” he replied, before his eyes widened and he glanced around her. “And...where are—”

She noticed, lowering her own gaze to the ground and grasping her hands tightly. “...They didn’t make it. Only us.”

It was then he noticed the splotched of pink scar tissue on her hands, that continued into the long sleeves of her blouse.

“...I’m sorry,” he said. He’d already mourned them once, along with his siblings, and the hope that had been slowly rising quickly faded back into the dark.

She was quiet for a long moment, before continuing. “A couple of the old nuns took us on the road with them. We started heading east, but...there’s fighting everywhere.”

“The knights are fighting hard though,” Mason argued. “We’ve met a lot of them. They let us set up camp with them sometimes!”

“Mason keeps pestering them about training,” Felicity added, glaring slightly at their younger brother, though it seemed more solemn then annoyed.

“I just want to help put an end to the war,” he claimed. “And take back Fherdiad!”

Ashe smiled and nodded, trying to hide the pit in his stomach. Battlefields were no place for a kid like him. Back before the true weight of his own world settled on his shoulders, Mason used to chase after him on short legs, crying when he got too far ahead, inconsolable. He cried at everything, at minor bumps and bruises, at his mother getting a little too intense while bartering at markets, at his father barking out an order. He was a good kid, but his heart was always too big for his own good, and the thought of it bleeding out on the battlefields Ashe would hover around like a psychopomp chilled him to his core.

“What have you been doing?” Felicity asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Where have you been?”

He scratched the back of his neck, rolling it in a stretch so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eyes. “Moving around, mostly.”

“Well, you don’t have to move anymore,” Felicity took his hand.

He looked back at her. “What do you mean?”

“You can come with us,” she explained. “We’ve finally found each other, wouldn’t it just make sense…?”

Her eyes were so hopeful, like the way they sparkled when she was younger, when he had swiped a pretty brooch from one of the shops in the marketplace for her birthday, when he could afford to keep things he liked instead of pawning them off somewhere else. But...he wasn’t a kid stealing from upselling merchants anymore, or picking the pockets of people stupid enough to flaunt their wealth. And the hands she was holding had blood on them, more so than at any other point in his life.

“I can’t,” he replied, squeezing her hand and letting it go, taking a step back.

Her face fell. “Why not?”

“I…” He glanced past her, to the path up to the monastery. “...I have a job. My contract won’t let me leave yet.”

“Your...contract,” she repeated lamely.

“Are you a mercenary?” Mason asked, his eyes widening.

“No, nothing of the sort!” he replied, shaking his head. “I just run errands, mostly.”

Felicity pressed her lips together, like she had more to say, but she sighed instead, and gave him a melancholy smile. “Well...come see us when you can. Please.”

He looked between his siblings, before his expression matched her own. “I will. I promise.”

He was certainly making lots of promises recently, to the siblings he thought he’d lost and to the prince history wanted to forget. Though, he supposed that if there was no verbal agreement, there was nothing technically  _ stopping _ him from leaving with the caravan, to return to being the big brother he used to be. The prince may even prefer it that way.

However, when he returned to the cathedral that evening, with a silver tray he knew would be ignored come morning, the ideas ceased.

“Father,” the prince cried weakly. “If I could march down to Enbarr and rip her head from her shoulders right this moment, I would. My feelings...my  _ hatred _ is not in question...Please, Stepmother, do not look at me with such contempt...”

He stopped only a few feet away, by the last pew, listening to the prince’s conversation with the air. For a moment, he questioned his own sanity, maybe he had been tending to a ghost the entire time, but the phantom pain in his newly healed throat reminded him otherwise. He’d seen madness, those thrown out of any shelter to wander the streets alone, stumbling in a daze and speaking in a language only they understood. He did his best to avoid them, he’d never known how to deal with them in the first place. But...the prince’s conversations with the long-dead made him wish he did.

“...Excuse me,” he started, taking a cautious step forward.

“What is it?” the prince growled, only turning his head just far enough to glare at him from over his shoulder.

He froze in place. “I just...brought you more food. You really should eat something, you know.”

The prince looked between him and the silver tray, but said nothing.

“If you don’t want me to bring you things, just tell me,” he said quickly, putting it down on the pew, to keep the safe distance between them. “Or...tell me what you like and I’ll try my best to make it.”

“Is it stolen?”

He straightened back up. “Excuse me?”

The prince turned fully towards him, his stature more intimidating when his icy eyes were on him, and not an enemy. Those he supposed, to him, maybe they were the same. “The food. Did you steal it?”

He shook his head. “N-No, of course not! It’s either from the greenhouse or fished from the pond.”

He stayed as still as possible as the prince eyed him over, studying him for weak points in his posture or story. The thought crossed his mind that, perhaps, he would consider using  _ anything _ from the monastery stealing, but when he simply turned back around, Ashe figured he was in the clear.

He took a few steps towards the door, before clenching his fists and turning back, though still finding himself unable to look at the prince directly. “You know...I only stole things because I had to survive.”

The prince snorted, glancing back over at him. “Tell me, rat, do believe you are the first to think their crimes are justified?”

“No,” he said, his eyes following the length of the prince’s spear to its rusting tip. “...Do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might change up formatting if I keep doing two-parter months and combine chapters for it to be more slick, but I'll make sure you guys know if I do.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this short, dialogue-focused one. It's not my strong suit, but I'm working on it.
> 
> Tumblr: @bloodyjinxii (feel free to ask questions about this AU or talk to me about FE3H in general!)


	5. Horsebow Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe mentally cringed as his brother’s eyes looked up at him, sparkling.
> 
> “Why didn’t you tell me you were a mercenary?” he asked, only just barely hiding his giddiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (shows up two months later with starbucks) you guys still here?
> 
> I'm totally joking. Tbh I got writer's block for the longest time because I wasn't happy with how I was writing this, plus I got a whole bunch of stuff dumped on me one right after the other and I kinda lost focus.
> 
> Thank you, lovely reviewers, for giving me the encouragement I needed to come back and continue.
> 
> Like I said, updates are going to be erratic. I'm a college student, and I just got a part-time job, so it's gonna be busy.
> 
> Thanks for sticking will me, and enjoy Ashe losing his goddamn mind over his siblings.

“No offense,” Felicity said as she wrung out another shirt into the river. “But your boss sounds like a real jerk.”

“He isn’t so bad,” Ashe insisted, taking it from her and laying it out in the sun. “He keeps to himself mostly.”

She frowned. “Still, with all this work he’s having you do—”

“I offered,” he reminded, handing her another dirty piece of clothing. “I chose to. And I don’t mind it, really. I like being busy. Besides, you do chores for the nuns all the time.”

“That’s different,” she claimed. “We all do our part.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what’s Mason doing?”

The two of them looked up, across the river, to where their brother was currently wielding a stick for a weapon, with a pot lid for a shield, trying to fend off a small group of playful children with dirty faces. He seemed to be “winning”, until one jumped onto his back and tackled him to the ground, the rest following suit.

Felicity sighed. “He keeps  _ them  _ busy.”

He chuckled and returned to the laundry. It still felt odd, being with people, holding a real conversation. Of course, he’d interacted with people within the past years but those were all transactions, a quick “how much?” and “pleasure doing business with you”. It wasn’t anything substantial, anything real. Not like talking with his siblings, dancing around the time between them, acting like they’d never separated in the first place, like he wouldn’t have to leave before the sun came down, with the promise of returning next Sunday still unsure and tentative until the day of.

But when he was here, watching Felicity do her chores for the nuns, and Mason making a fool of himself, he supposed there was nothing wrong with indulging in a small amount of nostalgia, to allow himself a “what-if”, if just for a few hours.

“Why didn’t you settle down somewhere?” Ashe asked one day, as he carried a bundle of firewood back.

“Why didn’t you?” she shot back, before sighing. “...No place was good enough. We always ended up too close to battles, or in disputed territory.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Where are you headed, then?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Alliance territory, maybe. There’s supposed to be some calmer areas there and the current Duke is supposed to be welcoming.”

“You’re going to the Alliance?”

“There’s not a lot of places  _ to _ go,” she reminded. “Unless we wanted to leave the Church.”

He pressed his lips together. He’d never pegged his sister as the religious sort, but of course, she was so young when the war started. They had gone to church once a week and for holidays, and Ashe vaguely remembered watching his mother pray before bed, but nothing more than that. Of course, now, Seiros and the Goddess were little more than travelling companions for him, people to ask for help, and to curse when things went wrong. Even still, he doubted they’d have time to listen to a dirty vagrant like him. But, when one of the village kids would scrape their knee, his sister would kneel down, reassuring them, before putting her hand over the wound and muttering a prayer, as the blood slowly stopped flowing and the skin stitched itself up without a scar, and Ashe felt the same comfort, the same warmth.

The irony of staying in a monastery, but not praying once, sunk in like an awkward, itchy blanket as he gathered the prince’s tray from the cathedral. He’d done his best to give the prince his space after he forgot to hold his tongue the last time they spoke. He still didn’t know how he’d avoided another physical confrontation, but he was nonetheless grateful to still be on his feet and breathing, moreso now that the prince seemed to be  _ eating _ , finally. It was only small bites, barely half if he was truly being honest, but he considered it a victory.

Those weren’t easy to come by, for him at least. Taking out bandit camps as they set up may be a favorite past time of the prince’s, but for Ashe, he considered it another chore to mark off his mental checklist. It startled him how easily it became routine, nock, target, shoot, until the only ones left breathing were the two of them. He didn’t look at faces anymore, specifically aiming his eyes towards their torsos. It made it easier to stomach, especially when he would stay behind, when he realized that some of the thieves had gotten lucky on their raids before, and the dead didn’t have much use for coin.

As he found a small pendant in the scraps of a destroyed tent, he looked up, meeting the eyes of someone or  _ something _ across the clearing. On reflex, he drew his bow, before the figure squeaked and put their hands up, stepping into the dappled sunlight.

Ashe lowered his bow incredulously. “Mason?”

His brother looked like a shamed street dog, slowly lowering his hands. “S-Sorry, I…”

He ran over and grabbed his shoulders. “What are you doing here? Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m fine, but…”

Ashe mentally cringed as his brother’s eyes looked up at him, sparkling.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a mercenary?” he asked, only just barely hiding his giddiness.

He stepped back and waved his hand dismissively. “No, that’s...I’m not a mercenary!”

“You were fighting bandits though,” Mason argued. “So either you’re a mercenary, or...are you a soldier?! A knight?!”

Awkward guilt pooled into his stomach as he remembered the books in the library, and the hidden fantasies that he’d tried so very hard to push down. “N-No, I’m none of those!”

“Then what are you?”

Ashe searched for the right excuse, like his brother hadn’t just handed him a shovel in his pit of lies and asked him to dig. What could he even say? That he was a common thief, no, worse than that, a vulture, playing pretend with a living corpse out of some strange moral obligation?

He slipped his bow onto his back. “It was just a favor someone asked of me. It’s not really a big deal.”

“So you  _ are _ a mercenary!”

“No!” He sighed in exasperation, rubbing his temple. “You should stay in the village. It’s really not safe around here.”

“But that’s boring!” he groaned. “Who’s the other guy? Is he your boss? He was so cool!”

“He’s…” He paused, then shook his head. Excuses could wait for another time. Hopefully never. “We should get you back before Felicity worries.”

He may have grumbled, and dragged his feet, but Mason followed him all the way back. Felicity gave him an earful for running off that Ashe had only heard half of before he slipped away back to the monastery before the sun fell too far below the horizon. A part of him, a sick, dark part, hoped that their caravan would leave sooner than expected, so he wouldn’t feel shackled to expectations, to people  _ caring _ anymore. It was easier, back when he was travelling, back before he had to look people in the eye. He supposed he and the prince had something in common in that sense, though it felt out of place to say that a thief and nobility could be in any way similar.

The only time he tentatively felt like he could consider himself anywhere near equal was when they were fighting, stomping out bandit camps, with the prince tearing through with his spear, and Ashe sprinting across the backlines, firing his bow. They had a system, though they never planned anything. They stayed out of each other’s way, and Ashe watched both their backs for stragglers. They weren’t soldiers, or mercenaries, just two technical vigilantes who destroyed not necessarily out of survival or hatred, but just out of...habit. Convenience. It wasn’t noble, he knew that for a fact, but maybe no fighting was.

He shook his head of his thoughts and let another arrow fly, burying itself in the shoulder of another bandit. He had no time to be debating morality, wasn’t even the proper person to have this debate, period. He had to focus, one foot in front of the other, one arrow, one more bandit down, so close to finish...until he saw a small dark figure sprint out of the woods and grab a discarded lance.

“Mason!” Ashe screamed, running towards him, as the world seemed to move in slow motion.

Mason swung his spear at a bandit, the blade inches away from the prince.

The prince turned his head to avoid an accidental blow.

The bandit raised his axe, the blade swinging down.

Ashe nocking one last arrow, firing as the prince stumbled back just fast enough for it to brush by his shoulder and lodge itself in the middle of the bandit’s forehead.

He tackled Mason as soon as he got close enough, knocking the lance from his hand. “What were you thinking?!”

“I-I was trying to help!” his brother claimed, trying to push him off. Ashe relented, turning to the prince, his stomach plummeting and launching into his throat at the same time. He was shaky on his feet, one hand still on his lance, the other covering touching a large gash across his eye, the blood dripping down heavily, staining the white-grey of his cloak. Swallowing his nausea, Ashe stood up and grabbed the prince’s arm, wrapping it around his shoulders and forcing him to lean on him.

He looked over at Mason, trying to speak in as calm a voice as possible. “If you want to help, get Felicity, and take her to the monastery.”

Mason looked between the two. “I…”

“Go, now!”

His brother jumped up to his feet and ran back through the woods, as Ashe slowly began to guide the prince back, focusing on deep breaths, and one foot in front of the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all y'all wondering "WHAT ABOUT DIMITRI'S EYE????"
> 
> (Will Smith pose)
> 
> Anyways follow me on Tumblr @bloodyjinxii and Twitter @FujinLuxRen.
> 
> Also stan The Oh Hellos for giving me a bunch of new music to listen to while thinking about DimiAshe and this AU.
> 
> On God we're going to get more DimiAshe stuff in here I pROMISE.


	6. Wyvern Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faith could do a lot of things, heal injuries and ailments, blind opponents and blast them away with a beam of light. But no matter how much you prayed to Saint Cethleann or Seiros or Sothis, no one could regain what they had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all fucking made me cry with your comments last chapter about me coming back so here's another chapter because you guys are just so sweet.
> 
> TW: Eye injuries, some violence, and violent threats

One time, a couple of years ago, Ashe played a morbid game with himself as he walked across an abandoned battlefield, filled with Imperial and Faerghus soldier. He counted how many of the dead had lost limbs, or other important body parts. He didn’t play it for very long, only counting up to about seventeen, before he couldn’t stand studying them any longer. Many of them, he figured, were minor nobles, or at least had some place to hope to come home. Even with a lost limb, if they hadn’t lost their lives, they’d have some place to go back to. They’d have someone to take care of them, to help them adapt, to adjust back to civilian life without an arm or a leg. If Ashe had lost anything, though, that would be a death sentence. Without an arm, he couldn’t defend himself, and without a leg, he’d probably starve in place if he hadn’t already passed from blood loss or found the courage or cowardice to slit his own throat. He figured it was one of the reasons he gravitated towards the bow. If he had distance between him and his opponent, he wouldn’t be in danger of a career ending injury.

Of course, when faced with another bowman, or, Seiros forbid, a sniper, he may not be in danger of losing a limb, but an eye would be just as bad.

Ashe stood back by the pews in the cathedral, Mason behind him, as Felicity gently put her hands on the prince’s face. He was more than half afraid he’d grab her wrist and twist it back until it snapped, and when he stiffened, hands curling into fists as he hissed in pain, Ashe had to repeat and remind himself not to reach for his bow. Felicity muttered a prayer, with the light from her hands brightening the dark cathedral, if only slightly.

Faith could do a lot of things, heal injuries and ailments, blind opponents and blast them away with a beam of light. But no matter how much you prayed to Saint Cethleann or Seiros or Sothis, no one could regain what they had lost.

Felicity told him as much as she helped him chop up fresh vegetables, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “The thing about head injuries is they bleed, constantly. SO you never know how bad it really is until they’re clean.”

“You did your best,” Ashe said. “It could have been worse.”

“I should be telling you that,” she replied. “You know, of all things, I never thought I’d actually get to see Prince Dimitri.”

He looked over at her from the pot he was stirring, slightly surprised. “You...remember him?”

“I remember he came to Gaspard,” she retorted. “I was young, not stupid.”

“I’m aware,” he said, returning to his cooking. “You...should be calling him ‘Your Highness’ though...or something…”

“Is that what you call him?” she asked.

“I…” He took the pot off the heat. “...I don’t really call him much of anything.”

She hummed. “And what does he call you?”

“A rat, mostly.”

Felicity laughed, as she put down her knife. “You look the part.”

“Hey, you’d be dirty too, if you spent five years alone.” He elbowed her lightly in the ribs, before pointing a thumb towards the cathedral. “Not like he looks his Sunday best either.”

“At the very least, you can tell the prince was handsome.”

Ashe gasped in mock offense. “You wound me!”

Felicity was nothing if not honest. While it was true that his appearance had gotten away from him over the years, he never considered himself much of a catch anyways. He had always been on the shorter side, skinny, freckly, and awkward, and most everyone in his town knew he didn’t have much in the way of an estate to compensate anyways. Even now, he felt any looks he could have grown into were marred by the few awkwardly healed cuts on his face, from skirmishes with bandits and bushes of thorns, and the fact that he probably should cut his hair at some point instead of ignoring it until it was long enough to tie back.

Still, who had time for appearances anymore anyways? He had more to worry about, like trying to keep the prince alive. Unfortunately, he seemed to have other plans when Ashe came up to the cathedral with what he’d cooked. Felicity had asked him to stay put until his eye healed, and, though he still might have been half-delirious from the mix of pain, sudden blindness, and faith magic, he distinctly remembers the prince giving a nod in agreement, abet a small one. Yet still, he found the prince up, halfway down the center aisle, heading out for his usual rounds.

“Out of the way, rat,” he growled, tightening his grip on his lance.

Ashe didn’t move, just tightened his grip on the silver tray he was carrying. “I’m sorry, but you're not going anywhere.”

“Do you expect to stop me?” he asked, the dark threat obvious.

“No,” he admitted, putting the tray down on a pew. “But I do expect you not to be stupid enough to leave before you heal.”

He heard the lance cut through the air before he saw the glint of metal, jumping to the side, though it swung wide, missing by a good foot. The prince attacked again, stalking closer as Ashe walked backwards, dodging carefully,. His first swing may have been wide, but the blade quickly grew closer to drawing blood, swiping half an inch away from his arm before he stopped and simply...stared for a moment.

“...Your aim is off,” Ashe commented aloud.

He regretted the words as soon as Dimitri grabbed him by his shirt collar and slammed him against the church wall, his feet just barely touching the ground, lance to his throat. “And whose fault is that?”

“I saved your life,” he shot back.

“You saved nothing,” the prince retorted. “If it wasn’t for that brat-”

“He’s my brother!”

“All the more reason to slaughter the lot of you,” he hissed. “An entire family of vermin-”

“If you lay so much as a finger on them...” Ashe interrupted speaking carefully, slowly, as calm as he could manage, as he grabbed the prince's arm, and looked up to meet both his manic blue eye and his wounded socket. He forced himself to not look away, to not even blink. “...I’ll take your other eye too.”

The prince glared daggers into his skin, pressing him harder into the cold stone, but Ashe didn’t break his gaze. He couldn’t. Didn’t the prince have his own family? He never heard of the prince having any siblings, but he did have a mother and father. Though, he remembered they  _ had _ died when Ashe, and the prince, were young. Even still, the prince must have had people he  _ cared  _ about. He went to school, school here, he must have had classmates, friends, people he liked. On the battlefield, that day in Gaspard, before the war, didn’t he put himself in danger for others? Didn’t he know how to defend, how to protect, how to, for  _ once _ , put someone else first?

Not that Ashe could claim he was any different. Not like he had made any lasting friendships. Not that he gave much of a thought about the corpses he found. The last time he cared about someone else, he got a blade in the side for his trouble. He supposed he could understand that much.  _ People  _ were trouble.

And  _ yet… _

The prince let him go.

He let him go and Ashe’s knees nearly buckled, but he managed to stand straight. The prince stared a moment longer...then returned inside the cathedral.

Again, he treasured the little victories.

Only one person to feed. Luckily, Mason hadn’t left for the village, or god forbid, wandered back into the woods. Instead, Ashe followed his shouts to the old training grounds, where he found him swinging a dinged-up lance at a dummy, faded from age.

“Mason!” Ashe called as his brother swung the lance, more clumsy than the prince, but still making him flinch. “Be careful!”

“You be careful!” Mason shot back, though he lowered his weapon. “What are you doing?”

He lifted his tray. “I thought you might need something to eat.”

“Great, I’m starving!” Mason took the tray from his hands and sat down on the step, leaning his back against a pillar.

Ashe looked around at the training grounds. He knew it was here, but he hadn’t spent much time in its walls. He had enough practice with his bow from bandits hunts, and the grounds weren’t particularly neat. Some weapons were snapped and broken, and pushed aside, most likely by his brother, but the ones that were still intact were still worn from age and lack of upkeep. Some of the dummies were falling apart, stitching coming undone and revealing fluff and straw, but they were still usable, he supposed, as long as you didn’t hit them too hard.

“I should have known you’d be here,” he said.

“Of course!” Mason replied. “The Knights of Seiros trained here all the time! Great heroes, strong, chivalrous, and noble...”

He almost asked how great they could be if their body count always seemed to be higher than the Imperials...but he held his tongue. He may be from Faerghus, but even he knew that the Empire had strength beyond anything he could imagine, prince or no prince.

“...become someone strong, like you, so I can…”

He almost choked on his own spit. “...L-Like me…?”

Mason’s eyes seemed to glitter in the slowly fading evening light. “You were so cool out there with those bandits! You didn’t let a single one get near you! And I...I…”

His face dropped as he remembered the outcome of his little stunt, and Ashe’s fell with it. It only made him more closely remember the prince’s threat, ones that he was still estimating the weight of,

He shook his head and headed to the weapon rack, searching for a lance that was still in semi-decent condition. Melee had never been his strong suit, but he couldn’t teach the basics with a bow. He picked up the lance mason had discarded and held it out to him. He stared at it, then at Ashe, and back.

“Are you…?” he started.

Ashe sighed. “At the very least, I can show you how to defend yourself.” He pointed his lance at his brother. “To your feet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Hey, write more Dimiti and Ashe interactions because that's what this fic is focused on.
> 
> Brain: "Actually Healthy DimiAshe Interactions" machine broke
> 
> Me: Understandable, have a horrible day.
> 
> Also I did want to mention that I picture thief!Ashe as looking pretty different from canon TS!Ashe. I have some doodles and concepts of his appearance, but I'm probably not going to post them until I'm happy with them (and my artstyle isn't that good for serious fantasy depictions). However, if you want, you're welcome to doodle up your own thief!Ashe and send it my way! Just tag me on Tumblr (@bloodyjinxii) or on Twitter (@FujinLuxRen)
> 
> Hope you guys have a Happy Halloween if I don't end up posting before then!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be updated sporadically when I get the urge to write. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Tumblr: @bloodyjinxii  
Twitter: @FujinLuxRen


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